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a smart answer.”
    That’s what I don’t like about you, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. It wasn’t worth the trouble.
    She was seated to the left of Joel Blaine, playboy son of real estate billionaire Leon Blaine. Leon was an interesting man. Joel was not. Joel was the typical rich man’s son who thought the world should kiss his ass because of his father. What a crock that was. As far as Madison was concerned Joel Blaine was a bad joke. The last of the useless playboys.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Joel said, wondering how he could get her to put out. “Can’t take a compliment?”
    â€œWhat happened to your neck?” she asked, pointedly staring at a red and swollen hickey. “Girlfriend get a little too . . . frisky?”
    Joel glowered. That bitch Rosarita. Two rounds with her and he felt like Mike Tyson. Why couldn’t a woman like Madison go for him? Smart, stylish and beautiful, she was the kind of woman he should be with. Not some coked-out married whore like Rosarita Falcon. Although he had to admit that Rosarita was something in bed, horny as a wildcat, with claws to prove it.
    â€œIf you like my lips, how ’bout us going out sometime?” he said with an encouraging wink. “You an’ me, Maddy, we could make things happen.”
    â€œMake things happen?” she said, laughing derisively. “What century are you living in?”
    He didn’t like that. Women were all the same, a bunch of bitches, his father had taught him that. And that’s about the only thing Leon had taught him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a ball-breaker?” he said with a sharp scowl.
    â€œHas anybody ever told you you’re barking up the wrong woman?” she replied coolly.
    â€œJesus!” he muttered, turning away.
    Madison reminded herself to have a little talk with Anton about his seating. Surely he knew better than to stick her next to Joel Blaine?
    Why was Joel there anyway? He was a most unlikely guest, hardly on Anton’s A list.
    She turned to the man on her other side, Mortimer Marcel, the designer. Mortimer was gay, but always entertaining. A tall, slim man in his early fifties, he was elegance personified. “You must come visit our showroom sometime,” he said, chic as ever in a pin-striped suit with crisp white shirt, pearl-gray tie and diamond cuff links. “I’m presenting some divine outfits this year. You’ll love everything.”
    â€œDo I get free clothes?” she asked jokingly.
    â€œFor you, yes,” Mortimer said, taking her seriously. “You’re an excellent advertisement.”
    â€œI am?” she said, surprised. Hmm . . . first she had gorgeous lips, now she was an excellent advertisement. Hey, girl, she thought wryly, you’re certainly scoring tonight!
    She glanced across at the other table, where Jamie wasglowing as Kris Phoenix plied her with compliments. Peter was slumped in a chair a few seats away from his wife. He did not look too happy. Next to him was a stick-thin, heroin-addicted supermodel—a girl who was failing to hold his interest.
    Tonight is not Anton’s greatest seating triumph, Madison thought. She feigned a yawn. “I have to leave early,” she whispered to Mortimer.
    â€œSo do I,” he whispered back, indicating his live-in love at the next table. “Perhaps Jefferson and I can offer you a ride?”
    â€œGreat,” she said, and was relieved to find that Joel had turned his full attention to the woman on his other side—a gorgeous black opera singer.
    Poor soul. There was no greater punishment than being hit on by Joel Blaine.
    As soon as they finished dessert she was out of there, sitting in the back of a town car with Mortimer and the black, bald and sexy Jefferson. What a waste, she thought. Why are all the good ones either taken or gay?
    David hadn’t liked gay men, they’d